Deke Lape considers the demented, cyclopean teddy bear drawn on the scrap of paper clutched in his hand. He looks up to scan the faded, peeling pornographic adverts and thoughtless graffiti lining the Tele-C booth. The same drawing is there, adhered to the panel in front of him with a phone number. He blindly dials. He waits. Click. There is an awful voice on the other end. It repeats. It repeats. He will heed what it tells him and wield its awful power. Deke Lape does not like to lose. He will stop at nothing, for he knows that Hell is but a word away.